The Wanton Angel

Chapter Twelve

As the hour of decision drew nearer, Westfield’s Men grew increasingly nervous. It worried them that their whole future might turn on a single performance at Court and what should have been welcomed as a signal honour came to seem more like a trial. The Italian Tragedy was a popular choice of play but they secretly feared that Havelock’s Men would have a clear advantage with a new work. If only one company were licensed south of the river, The Rose was the real threat to The Angel and the fact that Viscount Havelock’s uncle sat on the Privy Council sent tremors running through Westfield’s Men. Their patron was working strenuously to expand his faction at Court but he was up against some skilful politicians.

Notwithstanding their fears, Westfield’s Men were resolved to give a good account of themselves. While keeping up their regular performances in the inn yard, they also found time to rehearse and refine The Italian Tragedy. Edmund Hoode was instructed to write a new prologue and to insert new speeches in certain scenes in order to freshen the play. Nor was The Angel neglected. A team of volunteers from the Queen’s Head went there every day and Thomas Bradd employed them well. With the site cleared once more, timbers were delivered by barge and hauled up the muddy bank to the foundations. Bricks were laid, posts were sunk and the walls slowly began to rise.

Their work did not end at sunset. Nicholas Bracewell organised a team of men to guard the site until midnight when they were relieved by night watchmen from the company. He was eager to take his turn on patrol and spent a first night, armed and ready, sitting in the drizzle on the edge of the Thames. No attack was made on the site and no incidents of any kind were reported but it was a necessary safeguard, even if it did introduce more yawns into their afternoon performances than were set down in the play by the author.

Nicholas was proud of the way that the company was reacting to the challenge which confronted them but he was tormented by guilt at having to hold back information from them which would rapidly change their attitude. If they knew that their benefactor was really an ambitious countess who wished to take over the company, they might not work with such conviction, and if they realised that she had designs on their actor-manager into the bargain, they would have quailed. A patron was there to lend the protection and kudos of a name and not to exert control over their activities. The worst of it was that the company still thought of their benefactor as an example of divine intervention.

George Dart shared in the common illusion.

‘Will he be able to come to The Angel?’ he asked.

‘Who?’ said Nicholas.

‘Our saviour.’

‘I expect so, George.’

‘He must come. He is our guardian angel and we named the playhouse after him. On our first day there, he must come to share in the excitement.’

‘I agree,’ said Nicholas evasively.

‘It was one of the many good things Sylvester brought to this company. He had such loyal friends. Someone must have loved him dearly to advance so much money to us solely on his word.’

‘Yes, George.’

‘And will it be enough?’ asked the assistant stagekeeper.

‘Enough to help us survive? I do not know.’

‘But they must take us more seriously if we have our own playhouse. That is the biggest single bar against us.’ He saw Thomas Skillen coming into the inn yard. ‘I must go before I get my ears boxed again. But please thank him on my behalf.’

‘I will.’

‘Tell our benefactor that we worship him.’

Nicholas gave a smile but his stomach was churning. He hated having to lie to his fellows. The simple faith of George Dart would be shattered when he learnt the truth about the source of the loan and his trust in Nicholas would also be broken. It was morning at the Queen’s Head and Dart went off to get his first orders of the day from the old stagekeeper. Actors were starting to arrive to rehearse some scenes for the afternoon’s offering. Alexander Marwood drifted across the yard with his customary scowl. Leonard was filling wooden buckets from the well. A dark sky threatened rain.

Yet a sudden upsurge of affection seized Nicholas. With all its imperfections, he loved the Queen’s Head. A playhouse of their own would offer untold benefits but only if they were free to enjoy those benefits. An inn yard theatre with a glowering landlord was preferable to a new playhouse under the domination of the Countess of Dartford. Nicholas could not bear to view the uncertain future. He threw himself into his work by way of distraction. Minutes later, he was hauled away from it as a stallion came prancing into the yard.

One glance at Lawrence Firethorn showed that he had heard.

‘Nick!’ he bellowed. ‘Come here!’

‘What is amiss?’

‘This!’ said Firethorn, pulling a letter from inside his doublet and handing it over. ‘An act of treachery worthy of a Spaniard. Nay, a scheming Italian. We are lost, Nick.’

‘I do not think so,’ said the other calmly.

‘Read the missive.’

‘I do not need to. It is from Master Gill, I believe.’

‘Yes!’

‘Telling you that he wishes to leave the company.’

‘Worse than that!’ growled Firethorn. ‘Leave us and go to them. To that pack of wolves in Shoreditch. Wolves? Foxes, I should say, for they have tricked him with their cunning. I cannot believe that Barnaby would do this to us. But two days before we play at Court!’

‘Banbury’s Men have worked on him for some time.’

‘You knew?’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘I had him followed to Shoreditch. Owen saw him talking closely with Giles Randolph.’

‘Why was I not told?’

‘I favoured another strategy.’

‘The only strategy Barnaby deserves is a foot of naked steel between the ribs. Sweet Jesus! I’ll cut him into shreds and hang them up to dry! I’ll boil him in oil! I’ll turn him on a spit over a slow fire.’ He dropped down from the saddle. ‘This will be the death of us, Nick.’

‘I do not think so.’

‘How can you be so cool at such dreaded tidings?’

‘Because I helped him to frame the letter.’

Firethorn quivered. ‘You were his confederate? You stood by and let him sell his miserable skin to Banbury’s Men?’

‘No,’ said Nicholas, ‘and if you hear me out, you will find that he is not the villain you take him for. And neither,’ he added quickly, smothering Firethorn’s retort with a raised palm, ‘am I. The reason I helped with the letter was that he wished to show it to Giles Randolph before it was sent as proof that he was in earnest.’

‘Then he is not?’

‘Not since I talked to him of loyalty.’

‘What does he know of the word?’

‘A great deal. Do not despair of him. He will return.’

‘My sword will be ready.’

‘Were you a king, you would use it to knight him for his services to you.’ Nicholas grinned. ‘They wooed him hard to get him to Shoreditch and he has gone. But he may not fulfil their high expectations.’

Barnaby Gill arrived early at The Curtain to meet his new fellows and to rehearse the scenes in Richard Crookback in which his comic gifts would be given full rein. A beaming Giles Randolph gave him a formal welcome before introducing him to the others. Henry Quine was delighted to see him there, patting him like a favourite dog, and most of the sharers were honoured to have such a celebrated actor in their ranks but there were some who resented his promotion over their heads and who felt that his links with their rivals was a form of contamination. To bring him in at short notice for such an important performance was a risk but Randolph took it without a second thought. Gill learnt fast and had a tenacious memory. But the core of his art was inspired improvisation.

‘Clear the stage!’ said Randolph. ‘We will begin.’

‘I am ready,’ said Gill.

‘Are you happy with your role?’

‘Very happy, Giles.’

‘The play needed more comedy to brighten its darkness. You will be the silver lining on a dark cloud, Barnaby.’

‘I will strive to please you.’

‘Stand by with the book!’ called Randolph.

But nobody expected that a prompt would be needed by two such experienced players. Randolph had taken the title role many times in the past and could perform it without thinking. Gill had been given a few days to study the scenes in which he featured and would already have mastered his role. It was the first time that two outstanding actors had shared the stage and the rest of the company watched with interest, conscious that they might be witnessing a historic moment.

Richard Crookback began with the coronation of its central character, who had schemed his way to the throne and rejoiced in his villainy while doing so. It was in the second scene of the play that the jester made his appearance. Summoned to entertain the king and his entourage at their banquet, the jester amused the assembly with his antics before engaging with the king in a long argument. Like so many authors, the playwright put wise words into the mouth of a fool but they were disregarded by the impatient Richard who did not wish to be told that his reign would be short.

Trestle tables were set out for the banquet and a few cups placed on them. Richard III and his guests took their place at the banquet and indulged in witty badinage. Gill, lurking behind the arras, awaited his cue. When it came, he made a bold entrance but deliberately hooked his dagger in The Curtain so that he dragged part of it with him. Several of the actors onstage laughed involuntarily but their laughter changed to cries of surprise when Gill appeared to stumble and knocked their table to the ground, sending the wine cups rolling noisily across the boards. Executing a little dance, the jester bowed low before the king and broke wind with such rasping authority that he drowned out his master’s first line and produced some more unscheduled hilarity.

Giles Randolph took his role too seriously to find any humour in the mishaps and quelled his company with a regal glare before repeating his line again.

‘Where have you been, my mad Gurney?’

‘Gurney?’ queried Gill.

‘That is your name.’

‘It is a strange one for a clown.’

‘No matter. Let us proceed.’

‘But I do not like the name of Gurney.’

‘We will talk of it later.’

‘I would rather settle this argument now, Giles, for the name makes me uneasy. Must I Gurney myself for two whole hours in Court? It is a foul name for a fine character.’

‘Nobody has complained before.’

‘I do not complain. I ask merely as a favour.’

‘It will be changed, Barnaby.’

‘Now or later?’

‘At the end of the scene.’

‘But I have the name hurled at me a dozen times or more. Gurneys will come at me from every direction to offend my ears and distract me from my lines. Give me no Gurneys, sir.’

‘What name would you prefer to be called?’

‘Anything you wish, Giles,’ said Gill with an ingratiating smile. ‘I am happy to oblige you.’

‘Morton?’ suggested Randolph.

‘Too upright a name for a clown.’

‘Bernard?’

‘Too French for the jester of an English king.’

‘Call him Will,’ said the other with exasperation, ‘or Arthur, Tom or Robert. Call him what you choose, Barnaby, but let us get on with the rehearsal.’

‘I am deeply sorry,’ said Gill with a show of penitence.

‘What, then, will the jester be called?’

‘Gurney.’

‘But that is the name which annoyed you.’

‘It annoys me less than the others I was offered. Let me be Gurney until the end of the scene then we can baptise the jester afresh. Will that suit?’

‘Yes,’ said Randolph through gritted teeth.

‘Shall we continue or start again?’

‘We will start again, Barnaby.’

‘I am Gurney now, remember.’

‘Let us start again!’

Gill bowed apologetically and withdrew behind the arras again. Controlling his irritation, the king began the scene again with a speech to his subjects, only to be interrupted by the jester who popped his head around The Curtain and smirked.

‘Give me instruction, please.’

‘Well?’ said Randolph, breaking off from his speech.

‘When I bow in front of you?’

‘Yes?’

‘Would you prefer one fart or two, your Grace?’

The intensity of her anguish finally exhausted Rose Marwood and she fell into a deep sleep. Martin had deserted her. It was impossible to reach any other conclusion. The man she had loved so completely that she surrendered her heart, soul and body to him was not the kind and trustworthy person he had pretended to be. Instead of carrying the child of a man whom she adored, Rose was now saddled with the unwanted offspring of a hateful deceiver. A future which once looked so bright now seemed bleak and terrifying. The enormity of her misjudgement made her fear for her sanity.

It happened in the dark, so quickly and silently that she was not even aware of it at first. Nature, in its wisdom, took a decision which Sybil Marwood had tried to bring about by more inconsiderate means. A distant pain brought Rose awake to discover herself in a clammy and uncomfortable bed. When she learnt the reason for it, she shed her drowsiness at once and let out such a cry of fear that half-a-dozen people came running to her bedchamber.

Sybil got there first, holding a candle in one hand while beating away the servants with the flailing palm of the other. She ordered her husband to guard the door while she went in.

‘Mother! Mother! Mother!’ screamed Rose.

‘What ails you, girl?’

‘I am hurting so.’

‘Where is the pain?’

As soon as the flame cast its flickering light on the bed, Sybil knew what had happened. Sympathy welled up in her and she enfolded the girl in her arms.

‘Do not cry, Rose. It is God’s will.’

‘What has happened?’ asked Rose in the panic of ignorance. ‘Is it all over?’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘Has my child been born?’

‘No, Rose,’ said Sybil softly. ‘It will never be born now.’

‘What do you mean, mother?’

‘You have miscarried.’

The girl went off into such a fit of sobbing that her father came bursting in to investigate. Wearing a nightshirt, Alexander Marwood padded barefoot across the boards.

‘What is going on, Sybil?’

‘Rose has lost the baby.’

Honesty betrayed him. ‘But that is good news, surely?’

His daughter wept more bitterly and his wife looked with such rancour that her eyes seemed to glow in the dark. Her voice came out like a hiss of steam.

‘Fetch the doctor at once, Alexander!’

‘But that will be costly, my love.’

‘Fetch him! Our daughter needs help!’

Rain which had been falling intermittently for two days came in earnest after midnight. It turned the site into a quagmire and made the night watchmen think of their beds.

‘This is madness!’ said Owen Elias. ‘We will be nothing but three drowned rats by morning.’

‘I am drowned already,’ moaned Edmund Hoode.

‘Someone must be on duty,’ insisted Nicholas Bracewell. ‘The task fell to us tonight.’

‘Why not to someone else?’ argued Elias, stifling a sneeze. ‘Edmund and I play at Court tomorrow. We need sleep so that we may be fully refreshed for such an important event.’

‘Nick will do his share,’ Hoode reminded him. ‘All three of us should be abed. Do we really need to stay? Only a lunatic would be out in this foul weather.’

Elias nodded. ‘That is what we are. Three lunatics.’

They were huddled under a sheet of canvas which had been stretched over a few poles to form an impromptu tent. It kept out much of the rain but enough still dripped through to add to their discomfort in the darkness. Nicholas sought to cheer his companions up with a reminiscence.

‘Think of Banbury’s Men,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Their plan to steal our clown went seriously awry.’

‘That was your doing,’ noted Elias.

‘And yours, Owen. It was you who went to Shoreditch to get the proof we needed. Without that, I would not have dared to confront him.’

Hoode smiled. ‘Barnaby must have jumped out of his breeches when you accosted him at The Curtain, Nick. But he made amends for his folly. Schooled by you, he turned their rehearsal into such a farrago of errors that they were glad to see him go.’ He gave a laugh. ‘Richard Crookback collapsed in ruins about them.’

‘Yes,’ said Elias, ‘and the beauty of it was that they did not realise Barnaby’s mistakes were deliberate. They made so many allowances for him that a whole morning was wasted. He struck a shrewd blow for Westfield’s Men.’

‘And made his peace with us,’ observed Nicholas. ‘That was the important thing. We have him back in the fold.’

‘Where he belongs,’ said Elias. ‘Lawrence was so pleased to see him return that he wanted to kill the fatted calf. He even forgave Nick for not telling him how we learnt of Barnaby’s visit to Shoreditch.’

‘It was right to keep Lawrence ignorant,’ said Hoode. ‘He would have assaulted Barnaby and sent him racing off to the arms of Banbury’s Men. Nick’s device was much more cunning. It won us back our clown and left a company in disarray at The Curtain. Trust in Nick,’ he said, patting his friend. ‘He always knows what to tell Lawrence and what to hold back.’

The book holder felt a pang of guilt at the compliment.

Though the rain eased, their misery continued. Elias wanted to abandon the vigil, Nicholas volunteered to stay alone and Hoode dozed off to sleep on his shoulder.

An hour passed before the intruders came. Nicholas saw them first, ghostly figures emerging out of the gloom. Alerting Elias with a squeeze on his arm, he woke Hoode gently but kept a hand over his mouth to muffle any words. All three of them were soon crouched for action. Nicholas and Hoode each wore a dagger. Elias favoured a short knobbly club and he fingered it with damp hands, thrilled at the promise of action. There were three of them and they had brought ropes to move the timbers. Nicholas waited until they looped a rope over the first post in the wall before giving the signal.

Surprise was everything. The sudden attack from behind took the men completely unawares. Elias felled his man with the club, knocking him senseless with a series of blows. Nicholas kicked his man to the ground and held a sword point at his neck to hold him pinned there. Hoode was less effective. Though he jumped on his adversary and pummelled him with a fist, the man was strong and elusive. Throwing Hoode off, he scrambled to his feet and ran off along the riverbank.

Nicholas was after him like a flash, abandoning his own captive to Elias who stood over him with a raised club. Hoode got up and came to help his friend.

‘Get their rope!’ ordered Elias.

‘Shall we tie them up, Owen?’

‘I’d sooner hang the rogues! Come on, Edmund. We’ll truss the pair of them up like turkeys ready for market.’

‘Then what? Shall I go and help Nick?’

‘He will not need you.’

Anger was lending speed to Nicholas’s feet. He felt certain that the three intruders had been those who attacked him and he was determined to get his revenge. He closed on his man until the latter suddenly swung round and swished at him with a dagger. Nicholas halted and dodged out of reach.

‘I should have killed you when I had the chance!’ said the man, lunging at him again. ‘I should have sent you where I sent Sylvester Pryde.’

Nicholas recognised a voice he heard in Shoreditch. It served to sharpen his anger. He pulled out his own dagger and circled is adversary in search of the moment to strike.

‘What shall I call you?’ he said. ‘Martin or Henry Quine?’

‘Call me what you will for it will be the last word you speak.’ His jab sent the point of the dagger through the arm of Nicholas’s buff jerkin but the wound was slight. ‘Say your prayers, Master Bracewell.’

‘Is this how Giles Randolph instructs his players?’

‘He knows nothing of this,’ sneered Quine. ‘He is too tame for violence. His way to wreck your chances was simply to poach Barnaby Gill but I wanted to make sure.’

‘By murdering Sylvester and burning our timbers.’

‘There is a surer way still. By killing you.’

He feinted to jab but slashed his dagger through the air instead in a vicious semi-circle. Nicholas ducked beneath it, grabbed his wrist and twisted the weapon from his grasp. As they wrestled on the slippery bank, they lost their footing and slithered along the ground. Nicholas had a firm grip on him but Quine fought back hard. They rolled over and over until they fell with a loud splash into the river. The shock made Quine release his man to thresh about wildly with both arms and beg for help because he could not swim.

Nicholas overpowered and rescued him within minutes. He grabbed him by the throat with one hand and used the other to pound his face until there was neither sound nor resistance coming from him. Pulling his adversary by the hair, Nicholas dragged him out of the water and onto the bank. He was still panting for breath when Elias came hurrying over.

‘Did you get him, Nick?’

‘I got him.’

‘The other two are tied up with their own rope.’

‘Here’s a third that can be securely bound,’ said Nicholas. ‘His name is Henry Quine but we knew him as Martin. He is another actor who will not play at Court for Banbury’s Men. The rogue murdered Sylvester and I fancy he blighted the life of Rose Marwood as well. Give me a hand, Owen. We’ll lug him back to the others.’

‘But how is she now?’ asked Leonard with great concern.

‘Better,’ grunted the landlord. ‘And so she should be. The doctor charged a large enough fee.’

‘When we heard her cry out in the night, we thought that she was dying. What was wrong with poor Rose?’

‘Nothing, Leonard. It is all past.’

Alexander Marwood shuttled between relief at the loss of the child and sympathy for his daughter. Now that Rose had been treated by a doctor, she had some understanding of what happened to her and was far less afraid. It would take time for her to come to terms with the tragedy but it had brought her mother closer to her and that was a blessing. Marwood, by contrast, had been thrust further away from her by his wife. Such was her hostility towards him that he began to think that the nocturnal kiss which Sybil planted upon his cheek was a cruel figment of his imagination.

Leonard knew little about the mystery of childbirth. Rose was in distress and that was all that troubled him. He had lumbered into the church at dawn to pray for her. As he stood with his employer in the taproom, he tried to find a trace of guilt in Marwood.

‘You wronged them,’ he said quietly.

‘Who?’

‘Westfield’s Men. You swore that one of them had lain with Rose and tried to turn them out. It was not one of the players at all but Martin, who worked here for you.’

‘He was an actor with Banbury’s Men!’ snarled Marwood.

‘Not any more.’

‘He filled Rose’s head with tales of wonder.’

‘I thank God that she is free from the villain now.’

‘So am I.’

‘What will happen to him?’

‘He will dangle at the end of a rope, Leonard. And I will be there to cheer on the hangman.’ He looked through the window at the empty inn yard. ‘As to Westfield’s Men, they are lost to me and soon may be to everyone else.’

‘Alas, yes!’ sighed Leonard.

‘Today they play at Court,’ said Marwood. ‘Tomorrow there may not even be a Westfield’s Men.’

‘It is unjust!’ said Lord Westfield angrily. ‘The advantage has already been handed to Havelock’s Men. They performed their play here yesterday in glorious isolation. We have to follow Banbury’s Men and perform The Italian Tragedy today.’

‘That may serve our purpose,’ said the Countess.

‘How?’

‘Banbury’s Men have been shaken to their roots by this news about Henry Quine. They did not know they harboured a killer in their midst. Giles Randolph will have difficulty holding his shattered company together,’ she argued. ‘Richard Crookback will get a crookbacked performance at best.’

‘I saw the noble earl even now,’ said Sir Patrick Skelton. ‘He fretted with discontent. When the Earl of Banbury has no confidence in Banbury’s Men, we may take heart.’

‘I take none,’ said Lord Westfield.

‘You must,’ said the Countess. ‘When your troupe follows Banbury’s Men, they will look bright and fresh after the disarray which preceded them.’

The patron was still depressed. ‘Two plays in one afternoon is too great a burden to place on any audience. They will be jaded by drama and boredom will set in when The Italian Tragedy is only half-done.’

‘There’ll be no danger of boredom when Lawrence Firethorn takes the stage,’ she said. ‘He’ll wake the sleepers with a voice of doom and lead his company on to triumph.’

Lord Westfield was not convinced. He was standing in a corridor at the Palace of Whitehall, conferring with Sir Patrick Skelton and the Countess of Dartford. Now that the moment of truth was imminent, the patron was suffering a complete loss of faith. His discomfort increased when Viscount Havelock strolled past with his entourage and gave his rival a polite bow. Cordelia Bartram turned her back on her former lover but Lord Westfield looked him full in the face and saw the complacent smile.

‘He is safe!’ said Lord Westfield. ‘The Viscount knows that his company is secure. A Looking Glass for London has already been approved by the Privy Council. I see it in his face. I feel it in my blood.’

‘It was a sparkling comedy,’ conceded Skelton.

‘Played by a dull and unexciting company,’ said the Countess. ‘With such a romp in their hands, Westfield’s Men would have made the whole palace ring with laughter.’

‘But we do not have such a play!’ moaned the patron.

‘You have a better one,’ she argued.

‘Let me see what I can find out,’ volunteered Skelton. ‘I have a friend or two on the Privy Council. I’ll see how warmly they received this looking glass from The Rose. They are judicious men. I’m sure that no verdict will be made until all the evidence has been considered.’

Skelton gave a slight bow and took his leave. Lord Westfield was not reassured. The last time that his troupe performed at Court, he was able to bask in the praise of the Queen herself. This time they might unwittingly be giving their farewell performance. Perspiration broke out on his face.

‘Hold fast, my lord,’ urged the Countess. ‘Your troupe will want brave words and encouragement from you, not this portrait of defeat I see before me. You look as if you wish you did not have a theatre company at all.’

‘Then I look as I feel, Cordelia,’ he confessed. ‘This anxiety is sickening. If I could trade Westfield’s Men for money at this moment, I would take any offer and be happy.’

They were ready. Sylvester Pryde’s murderer had been caught and the men who had assaulted Nicholas Bracewell before wreaking destruction at the site of The Angel were also fettered in a prison cell. Of more immediate importance to the company, Barnaby Gill was back among them once more, having caused confusion and disorder at a rehearsal with their rivals. Banbury’s Men had now staged their play at Court and Giles Randolph had somehow wrested a creditable performance out of his troupe. Richard Crookback was a sound choice and there had been an ovation when the wicked usurper was crushed in battle by the Earl of Richmond, wearing a tunic that was emblazoned with the Tudor rose.

Lawrence Firethorn did not underestimate the challenge. Gathering his company around him, he spoke in quiet, persuasive tones to men more used to hearing his bawled abuse or rousing rhetoric. He surveyed each face in turn.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we are here. Her Grace, the Queen, and all the peers of the realm are your audience today. We are truly honoured and we must show that we are worthy of that honour. Forget our rivals. They are done. It is our turn now and we have a chance to wipe all memory of Havelock’s Men and Banbury’s Men and any other company from the minds of our spectators. Let them see us at our best. Show them what they would lose if Westfield’s Men were to perish.’ He paused to let his words sink in. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said at length in a coaxing whisper. ‘We have come through dangers and setbacks which would have daunted any other company. But we are here. Let us give a royal performance before this royal assembly and show them that Westfield’s Men are the finest troupe of actors in Christendom.’

George Dart was so moved that he started to clap his hands in spontaneous applause until cuffed into silence by Thomas Skillen. They were in their tiring-house, a room off the Great Chamber, where The Italian Tragedy would be performed. Scenery from their rivals’ play had been removed and their own scenic devices were waiting to be carried out. Sharing the occasion with a rival company, they had little time to rehearse on the stage itself and that induced a general nervousness but it was largely dispelled by Firethorn’s speech. Westfield’s Men knew what was at stake. They had to act for their livelihoods.

Nicholas Bracewell moved among his fellows to check their costumes and issue reminders about cues to be taken and properties to be used. He paid particular attention to the apprentices, young boys who would profit most from his reassuring presence and whose dresses and farthingales, head-tire and fans would come under the intense scrutiny of the very court ladies whom the apprentices were counterfeiting. Every detail had to be right, every move and gesture so convincing that the audience would not even realise that they were looking at four boys in female attire.

They could hear the heavy murmur of anticipation in the Great Chamber. The room was filling up. Wooden tiers of seats covered in green baize had been erected against all four walls. A canopied throne was set for the Queen on a carpeted podium in front of a high stand at the head of the Chamber. Red velvet cushions had been set out on the floor in readiness for selected ladies to lounge and pose. The stage itself was a rectangle in the middle of the hall, some twenty feet wide and not much above twenty-five feet long. Since the play would be viewed from all sides of the arena, scenery had to be used to decorate without obscuring any part of the action.

The floor was made of polished wood, ideal for dancing and much more solid than the quaking boards on which they acted at the Queen’s Head. Instead of open sky above an inn yard, they would be acting beneath an ornamented and fretted ceiling of hard plaster. Instead of competing with the bells and street clamour of London, their voices would be clarified by the tapestried walls and the solid ceiling. Hundreds of branched candles, hung on wires, stretched across the room.

Most of the audience were in position but the throne and all the scaffolds in the upper part of the room were empty, guarded by yeoman with halberds. The Gentleman Usher sounded a warning, then twelve trumpets announced the approach of the Queen and her train. Everyone in the Chamber rose to their feet and the actors in the tiring-house felt a surge of pride which was tempered with a dryness in the mouth. They were almost there. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, had come to witness their performance.

They could hear the exact moment of her entry into the Great Chamber. It was a long procession. The trumpeters came first, then the heralds in their coats of arms, then the nobles and Knights of the Garter. Distinguished foreign visitors to the palace were also included, led by the Lord Chamberlain with a white staff which he used to marshal the fifty Gentlemen Pensioners, who acted as the Nearest Guard, and who, bearing gilt poleaxes, formed a hedge on either side. The Earl of Banbury was given the honour of bearing the crimson-sheathed Sword and the Lord Keeper carried the Great Seal. Then came the Queen herself, arrayed in all her finery, sweeping majestically into the Chamber with Ladies of Honour in her wake. Only when she was escorted to her throne by the Lord Chamberlain and lowered herself into it did anyone else dare to seat themselves.

To the waiting actors, it seemed like an eternity before they were given their signal. When it came, George Dart and the other assistants swiftly carried out the scenery and stage properties. After bowing to the Queen, they set them in position then bowed again and withdrew. There was a murmur of approval at the brightly painted scenic devices. The play opened in the Great Hall of a castle. At a glance, the audience could tell exactly where they were.

The Chamberlain used his staff to beat on the floor.

‘Sound, trumpets!’ he ordered. ‘Sound out!’

The ringing fanfare was their cue. With Firethorn at their head, the company walked bravely into the Chamber and bowed three times before distributing themselves around the stage. Those who did not appear in the first scene sat on green rushes at the edge of the stage. Book in hand, Nicholas sat among them to watch and control. Peter Digby and his consort took up their positions to the side of the stage, their instruments tuned. The Lord Chamberlain raised his staff again and boomed over the hubbub.

‘Peace! Ha’ peace! Let the play commence.’

Silence slowly fell on the banked audience and the music started. Owen Elias stepped out to deliver the Prologue, bowing to the Queen, before declaiming the words which Edmund Hoode had penned during the long hours of the previous night.

‘Good friends, for friendship is our constant aim,

Y’are welcome to a play that will not maim

A king with crookback vile and wicked tongue

Nor let a merry looking glass be hung

In front of London town. To Italy we go,

And there, for your delight, we straightway show

What history so often sadly finds,

Upright men with dark and crooked minds

That make King Richard seem a silver saint,

For all those layers of black Banburian paint,

Which you have seen this very afternoon

Splashed thick upon a foul, misshapen loon.

You will not have a lock of London’s hair

In Italy. Dear friends, we take you there

To show you lust, deceit and civil strife,

To hold our Westfield mirror up to Life!’

The first burst of applause broke and the spirits of the whole company were lifted. Even their patron was encouraged. Angered at the sight of his hated rival, bearing in the Sword with such dignity, he smiled at the mention of Banburian paint and laughed aloud at the play on Viscount Havelock’s name. He was also reminded what a fine, clear-voiced actor Owen Elias was. Seated beside him, the Countess of Dartford did not let her gaze linger on the Welshman. It was Lawrence Firethorn who commanded her full attention. Magnificently attired as the Duke of Milan, he moved around the stage with an authority and grace which was breathtaking.

The Italian Tragedy proved a happy choice. It was a brilliant study of political duplicity and, since it involved Court spies from France, Spain and Holland, it enabled the audience to laugh at four different nationalities while realising at the same time that they were watching eternal traits of human nature which they themselves possessed. Firethorn was inspired as the villainous Duke, plotting, seducing, betraying, stabbing and poisoning his way through five acts of heady drama. Richard Honeydew was so moving as his hapless victim that even the Queen herself had to brush away a tear. Edmund Hoode was elevated to papal status and reinforced the Protestant prejudices of his audience with a display of scheming and manipulation. Owen Elias was the valiant hero who finally vanquished the tyrannical Duke.

It was Barnaby Gill, however, who gleaned the most applause. Relieved to be back with the company and smarting at his folly in considering defection, he was determined to atone for his mistake and pushed himself to the outer limits of his art. His timing was perfect, his gestures vivid, his facial contortions a delight and his dances a source of pure joy. The comic songs which Hoode had inserted into the play for him were greeted with thunderous clapping and the Queen’s hand patted the arm of her throne in acknowledgement. Those who had laughed at A Looking Glass for London discovered what real laughter was.

Nicholas was proud of them all. He could rely on the more experienced actors to rise to the occasion but the younger ones and the apprentices also distinguished themselves. Even the error-prone George Dart came through unscathed. When the company brought the play to its bloody climax, the ovation turned the Great Chamber into a cauldron of noise. Nicholas stole a glance at Lord Westfield, who was smiling with joy. When the book holder looked at their patron’s companion, however, he was reminded of another threat which still hung over the company. Cordelia Bartram, Countess of Dartford, surveyed the players with a glint of ownership and it was on Firethorn that her gaze rested. Even if they survived one crisis, the company would soon be confronted by another and only Nicholas could see it coming.

Lucius Kindell walked up and down outside the Queen’s Head and tried to pluck up enough courage to go in. An inn which had offered him so much joy and friendship now seemed to be sealed off from him by an invisible barrier. Guilt jostled with necessity. Ashamed to show himself, Kindell knew that he must do so if there was any hope of reconciliation. He licked his lips, bunched his fists, straightened his back and summoned up every ounce of resolution. Then he went in through the gate.

Westfield’s Men had just broken off from their morning rehearsal. They were in a jovial mood. Their sense of unity was forbidding to the exile. He was afraid that they would shun him as one, if not drive him away with blows and harsh words. His steps became slower and more tentative. It was Edmund Hoode who saw him first and the young playwright could detect none of the apparent friendliness Hoode showed at their last meeting. Others glowered at him, a few turned away. When he collected a searing glare from Lawrence Firethorn, the newcomer lost all heart. He began to slink off.

Nicholas Bracewell went quickly after him.

‘Wait, Lucius!’ he called. ‘I crave a word.’

‘I fear that it will come with a blow,’ said the other, pausing at the gate and raising a protective arm. ‘You must think me the worst species of traitor.’

‘No, Lucius. You were practised upon.’

‘I was, I was. Master Kitely beguiled me.’

‘If you have realised that, you are already halfway to redemption.’ Nicholas smiled and gave him a pat on the arm. ‘Have you heard the glad tidings?’

‘It was the reason that I came.’

‘The Privy Council has spoken. They were so impressed by all three companies who performed at Court that they will not debar any of them. Westfield’s Men have been reprieved. And there is better news yet,’ he said. ‘We hear that they will also renounce their plan to close the inn yard theatres. The Queen’s Head may yet resound to our pandemonium.’

‘Until you move to The Angel,’ noted Kindell. ‘That is what vexes Havelock’s Men. To have another playhouse so close to The Rose in Bankside. What will happen to this inn when Westfield’s Men leave?’

Nicholas shook his head in doubt then looked shrewdly at the visitor. Kindell’s arrival might yet be providential.

‘Why did you come, Lucius?’ he asked.

‘To make my apologies.’

‘It is too late for that.’

‘I know,’ said the other, ‘but I am perplexed. I made a great mistake and I will pay dearly for it.’

‘In what way?’

‘When Master Kitely commissioned a new play from me, I was flattered. I thought it would take me from my fledgling role. In my vanity, I dreamt of being the Edmund Hoode of The Rose.’ He gave a shrug. ‘It will not come. Though I beat at my brains day and night, the new play will not come easily onto the page. What I have written only saddens me and it will appal Master Kitely when he reads it. The truth is … I am not yet ready to fly on my own. I need another’s feathers to buoy me up in the air.’

‘Honestly spoken, Lucius!’

‘Do not mock me.’

‘I pity you,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I also admire you for admitting the error of your ways and recognising that you still have limitations.’

‘Hideous limitations! My play is doomed.’

‘What does Rupert Kitely say?’

‘If it will not suit, it will be rejected outright.’

‘Has he not tried to help you?’

‘Yes,’ said Kindell, ‘but only to shape his own role into prominence. He is no craftsman like Edmund Hoode. He does not work at the carpentry of the whole piece.’

Nicholas let him unburden his woes. He was struck by the other’s candour and by his genuine remorse. Kindell had been naive rather than treacherous. His crime was forgivable.

‘Would you like to come back to us, Lucius?’ he said.

‘I dream of nothing else.’

‘It may take time.’

‘I will wait patiently.’

‘Then do the company a service as proof of your loyalty.’

‘I will do anything!’ vowed the boy.

‘How often does their patron visit Havelock’s Men?’

‘The Viscount attends almost every performance.’

‘Then deliver this to him,’ said Nicholas, taking a letter from inside his jerkin. ‘Be sure that you put it into his hands yourself.’

‘What shall I tell him?’ asked Kindell, holding the missive and staring at its large seal. ‘That it was given to me by Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘No,’ said the book holder. ‘Tell him the truth. That it comes from a beautiful lady who desired you to deliver it in person. I was there when the lady in question penned this letter so I can vouch for her. Say nothing more than that, Lucius. It is enough.’

‘He will press for the lady’s name.’

‘If you do not know it, you cannot speak it.’

‘How will I describe her?’

‘As I have. Beautiful and gracious.’

He rehearsed Kindell in his role as messenger then sent him on his way. Firethorn came sauntering across to him.

‘I hope that you chastised him roundly, Nick.’

‘There was no need.’

‘Lucius Kindell is a villain.’

‘He is a foolish young man as we once were ourselves.’

Firethorn grinned. ‘In some senses, I still am. But why were you so civil to that traitor?’ he said, scowling again. ‘He is in the pay of Havelock’s Men now.’

‘That is exactly why I courted him.’

‘But Rupert Kitely is as base a man as Giles Randolph. Between the two of them, they do not amount to one complete actor. As for their patron at The Rose, he made my blood boil when I saw him at Court, smiling at us as if he already knew we would be disbanded. I loathe that devious Viscount, Nick. Do you know what I will do?’

‘What?’

‘Ask Edmund to put him in a play, to bring the whole city’s ridicule upon his head. If it is done cunningly enough, he will not sue for libel. Yes,’ he said warming to the notion. ‘That is a role I long to play. Lawrence Firethorn in the guise of Viscount Havelock.’

Nicholas suppressed the urge to burst into laughter.

Persistent rain turned the streets of London into a sea of mud but Viscount Havelock was not deterred by inclement weather. The invitation had been so enticing that he would have kept the assignation if the city had been swept by a blizzard. His carriage squelched its way along a wide thoroughfare before turning into a street. The rain drummed ceaselessly above his head. When they reached the designated house, the Viscount took out the letter once more, inhaled its fragrance and read its honeyed words by the light of the lantern.

It had been delivered to him by Lucius Kindell who was patently ignorant of the identity of the sender. The lady’s anonymity lent a piquance to the whole evening. Viscount Havelock could not wait to meet her and to solve a mystery which so intrigued him. Alighting from the coach, he picked his way through the mud and went in through the already open door of a large house. The maid who admitted him curtseyed but was too shy to raise her eyes to him. She conducted him upstairs and into an antechamber. The Viscount was left alone in a pleasant room with branched candelabra throwing a shadowy light. When he saw the wine in readiness on the table, he rubbed his hands in delight.

Noises from the adjoining bedchamber told him that she was there and he tried to construct her appearance in his mind. He was still adding the finishing touches to his portrait when he heard the door open. Keeping his back to it, he waited until she had time to enter the room then turned to survey his latest conquest. Her beauty was striking, her attire wondrous and her perfume alluring but Viscount Havelock was proof against all of her attractions.

‘Cordelia!’ he exclaimed.

‘Charles!’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You invited me.’

‘I did no such thing, sir,’ she said, having expected Lawrence Firethorn instead. ‘You are the last person in London I would wish to see. I would sooner seek the company of the meanest beggar than lower myself to your level.’

‘You insult me, Cordelia.’

‘Not as much as you once insulted me.’

‘Still harping on that, are you?’

‘Get out, sir! Get out of the house!’

The wrangling continued apace for a full hour.

Heavy during the day, the rain became torrential at night, working in league with a fierce wind to wash London like a tidal wave. Bankside bore the brunt of the downpour. Water streamed off thatched roofs and swelled the rivulets that ran through every street. Swollen and angry, the Thames itself started to test the strength and height of its banks. The site of The Angel theatre was especially vulnerable. Ground which was already sodden after a week of rain now became completely waterlogged. As the foundations were weakened, brick walls and wooden posts began to sway slightly in the howling wind.

But the real enemy were the huge timbers themselves. Delivered by barge, they had been dragged by rope up the incline and a deep trench had been gouged out of the mud. It was now a gushing waterfall, pouring into a river that was already lapping dangerously at the remains of the derelict wharf. Wind, rain and river had no respect for angels. As the night wore on, the wind reached gale force, the rain became a deluge and the River Thames, dark and unruly, burst its bank and sent its overflow surging up the trench to meet the waterfall. The whole site was soon flooded.

Timbers which lay in readiness were picked up and borne away, walls which had seemed solid were knocked over as if by a giant hand, and wooden posts were uprooted and tossed onto the flood. As more water poured irresistibly into the site, and as the wind reached a new pitch of hysteria, The Angel theatre was swept away in its entirety and the dreams of Westfield’s Men went sailing away for ever downstream.

A week wrought substantial changes in the company’s position. They lost their benefactor, abandoned the notion of building a playhouse, paid compensation to Thomas Bradd, allowed Lucius Kindell back into their ranks and elected to remain at the Queen’s Head. Though forced upon them, it was a universally popular decision. The Angel theatre had fired their imaginations at first but Owen Elias was not the only one to see its inherent drawbacks. They were happy to be safely back in their own home.

Nicholas Bracewell looked around the taproom at the grinning faces with a mixture of relief and satisfaction. His deft stage management had rescued them from the threat of the Countess of Dartford and The Angel theatre had been destroyed by force of nature rather than by the depredations of any rival. He was content, especially as none of his fellows would ever know how close they came to being taken over by a new and dangerous patron. When Lawrence Firethorn had talked about portraying Viscount Havelock on stage, he had no idea that his book holder had arranged for the Viscount to take on the part of the actor for an evening.

Lucius Kindell came over to sit beside Nicholas.

‘A thousand thanks,’ he said. ‘I never hoped that I would be invited back to Westfield’s Men.’

‘On sufferance,’ warned Nicholas.

‘I know it well.’

‘Work with Edmund and make amends for what happened.’

‘He tells me that it was your doing,’ said the other. ‘You persuaded them to have me back. The offer could not have been more timely. I was thrown out of Havelock’s Men by their patron himself. The letter which I gave him seemed to delight him at first but he hurled it at me when we next met.’

‘You were a good messenger, Lucius.’

‘Viscount Havelock did not think so. Who wrote it?’

‘I told you. A beautiful lady.’

‘But what was her name?’

‘That would betray a confidence,’ said Nicholas, recalling how Anne Hendrik had penned the missive at his dictation, her elegant feminine hand ensnaring a viscount. ‘A gentleman must always protect a lady’s reputation, Lucius. And this one prefers to remain unknown.’

Kindell thanked him again and went to rejoin Hoode over a drink. The two of them were soon deep in discussion over their next collaboration. Nicholas watched with pleasure then caught a glimpse of Rose Marwood as she tripped across the taproom, now recovered and regaining something of her bloom. Leonard, too, was there, thrilled that his friends would be staying at the inn after all. Lawrence Firethorn was engaged in a heated argument with Alexander Marwood, the one yelling and the other gesticulating wildly. When the landlord stumped angrily out, Firethorn came across to Nicholas with a huge grin.

‘That is what I would have missed, Nick.’

‘What is that?’

‘My battles with that mangy cur of a landlord. I thrive on them. With all its virtues, a new playhouse could never compare with the Queen’s Head. We have lost our guardian angel but we have also lost the huge debt which the loan incurred. No,’ he said with philosophical calm, ‘we are fortunate men.’

‘We are!’ said Nicholas with feeling.

‘Alexander Marwood is a menace but remember this, Nick. Better the devil we know than The Angel we do not!’